


boys don't cry

by vlieger



Category: Neighbours (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>basically i didn't like where the show went with them (surprise surprise), so i wrote my own version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	boys don't cry

The first time Andrew ran away from home was in Scotland. He was seven, and his mum caught him sitting cross-legged and stubborn on his bed amid the whirlwind mess of his room. 

“I thought I told you to clean up,” she said. 

Andrew shrugged and averted his gaze. 

There was a long silence, and then Christina stepped forward, hand raised, and slapped him hard across the face. It rang clear about the room. 

Andrew watched her step away, mouth open, palm cupped over his cheek. 

“I wish,” she said, low and firm and furious, bending to pick up the clothes strewn across the floor, piece by piece, “I wish I’d never had you, Andrew.” 

She straightened, arms half-full, and threw the pile onto his lap. 

He looked down, tracing the stripes of the zebras scattered over his favourite pyjamas. When the door clicked shut and her footsteps had faded down the stairs he dumped the clothes back onto the floor and slid the window open. It was raining. 

 

What Andrew hates most about his mum is that he can’t stop hoping. She’s never once given the impression that he’s anything other than a burden, and yet, when he calls her, sitting cross-legged on his bed in Erinsborough, everything tidy and perfect around him, so unlike his messy little room in Scotland, he can’t help thinking, as he waits for her to answer, _maybe_. 

Maybe this time. 

“I don’t think you should come back, Andrew,” Christina says quietly after he’s explained. 

“But mum, I don’t like it here, no one --”

“I don’t want you to come back,” she says. 

Andrew blinks, and listens to the line go dead, and if Rebecca weren’t right there he thinks he probably wouldn’t have had the pride to hold back the tears, this time. 

 

He doesn’t let people in because he doesn’t want to be disappointed. His mum’s his mum, he figures, no matter how much she doesn’t want him; he can’t help that one. 

Everyone else, though: Paul he doesn’t know well enough, just some guy he wants to impress, not really his dad. Donna was nice, and he feels bad for screwing things up between her and Ringo, but he never liked her, not enough for it to really hurt. Declan hates him, as well he should, so that’s never been a problem. Rebecca’s more worrying. There’s this ache, every time she speaks to him, when she tells him, “You’ve got a home here, you know,” this longing, this _want_ , but he can’t, he can’t, because Paul’s coming back soon, and he’s still Andrew’s dad in every way that counts, and he knows that this, here, in Erinsborough, is only temporary. 

He tells her, “I’ve blown it,” because it’s true, and, “Just leave me alone,” because he can’t do this, he just wants his mum and her familiar, expected hostility. He doesn’t know how to handle this, all these new people extending their hands, offering things: help, a home, a family. 

He doesn’t want it. One thing he’s learned, one thing he knows for sure, is that nothing is ever permanent, and nothing good ever lasts. 

 

Summer is different. It takes him a while to figure out why. He doesn’t want her either, he doesn’t think, not like that, and in the end he realises it’s because he’s jealous. 

Summer’s been through shit. He’s heard most of the history and pieced together the rest. Her mum died, her dad went crazy, and he’s a little hazy on Steph’s story, but only because there’s so much of it, and yet. Summer’s happy. 

Andrew’s got a mum who doesn’t want him and a dad who doesn’t know him. He fucks up every relationship anyone offers him and most of the time he can’t tell whether it’s on purpose or not. 

Both are just as bad. One makes him a bastard, the other a complete screw-up. 

He’s not entirely sure which he’d rather be. 

In the end though, he figures it doesn’t really matter. He’s fucked up, and Summer isn’t, and she _should_ be, and it’s not fair. 

 

He heads to the park after he trashes Ramsey Street and sits on the little jetty overhanging the lake, knees pulled to his chest, shoes peeking over the edge. 

He feels oddly calm. This, this is who he is. It’s who people think he is, who they expect him to be, and he doesn’t understand why they waste all that time and energy trying to make him into something else if it’s what they’re waiting for all along anyway. 

It reminds him a lot of the second time he ran away from home, back in Scotland. He was eight and yelling at his mum because she wouldn’t let him go on the school excursion; too expensive, she said, and he screamed, tears stinging his eyes, “But you’d pay to fix this, wouldn’t you?” and threw one of her vases against the wall. 

It shattered, ear-splittingly loud in the sudden, deathly silence. 

“You,” Christina started, white with anger, bright spots of colour high up on her cheeks. She was beautiful, Andrew remembers thinking, it was the only thing he could ever boast about his mother, never anything she said to him or did for him. Just how beautiful she was. 

He left before she could finish. Ended up down at the docks, perched on the railings of the huge, long jetty, legs swinging over the lower beam, arms folded over the top. It wasn’t raining but it was overcast, and windy, and the salty spray soaked through his sweater and jeans and left him shivering, aching from the cold. 

 

It’s Declan who comes to find him in the end. Andrew’s surprised. He was expecting Harry or Summer or maybe even Rebecca. Declan’s conspicuously free of India, arms folded across his chest. Andrew’s sure the baby’s been the only thing stopping Declan from hitting him, several times, but he doesn’t shrink back as Declan lowers himself to sit beside him. He tilts his head upwards, chin raised, proud, and thinks about his mum slapping him when he was seven. 

“You’re such an idiot,” says Declan.

“Surely you’re not surprised,” says Andrew. The nonchalance is easy, practiced. 

“Not at all,” says Declan. “Just making sure you knew.”

I know, thinks Andrew. “How kind,” he says aloud. 

Declan shakes his head and lets out a sharp, annoyed breath. “You’re so stupid,” he says. “You. We’re giving you a chance, all of us, so many chances, and you keep throwing it back in our faces. No one did anything but try to help you. If you want to leave, leave, but stop taking whatever’s wrong with you out on us. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah.” Andrew shrugs. “Life’s not fair, is it?”

He sees Declan’s fingers twitch, in the corner of his eye, and turns his head to meet the punch. Declan just bites down on his lip though, and says, “You’d know.”

Andrew remembers Declan’s words in the coffee shop, _I reckon you’ll find they’ve given up on you, just like everyone else_ , and says, “Rebecca spoke to her, didn’t she.”

“She doesn’t want you,” says Declan without inflection. “Your mum.”

Andrew says nothing.

“Rebecca does,” says Declan. “After everything you’ve done to her, she’s still trying. That’s more than your mum’s ever done, I bet, and you still-- ”

“Shut up,” says Andrew, clenching his fists. “Just shut up. You don’t understand. You don’t understand _anything_.”

“How can I? You pretend like everything’s fine, like you’re an asshole because you want to be-- ”

“Maybe I am,” says Andrew. “Maybe I am just a bad person. It’s not such a stretch. Look at my dad.”

“We don’t understand because we don’t know,” says Declan. 

Andrew looks at him. “Rubbish,” he says. “I could tell you everything, every tiny little thing, and you still wouldn’t understand what it feels like to have your mum tell you she doesn’t want you, right to your face or behind your back and not know what’s worse, or grow up hearing every day how she wishes she’d never had you.”

Declan’s silent for a long time. “I guess not,” he says at last. 

Andrew snorts and huffs a humourless laugh. “You should’ve just hit me,” he says, pushing himself to his feet, and walks away without looking back. 

Declan doesn’t follow. 

 

He’s in his room, back at Paul’s place, folding his clothes not really neatly into a duffel bag. He doesn’t hear Declan slip inside until India makes one of her little choked-off baby noises. 

“What,” he says without turning. 

“I think I gave you the wrong impression, earlier,” says Declan. 

“How’s that,” says Andrew, frowning down at the now-full bag. There’s still a decent pile of clothes waiting on the bed. 

“You’ve had it tough,” says Declan, “But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to be so selfish.”

“I think you’ll find I am.” Andrew pulls out half the clothes and starts re-folding. 

Declan makes a muffled, frustrated noise, and Andrew hears him bouncing India in his arms like he does when he’s annoyed. “It’s the easy thing to do,” he says. “You try to act all tough, but you’re a coward.”

Andrew turns. “What would you know?” he spits. 

“My wife died,” says Declan, his voice low. “I didn’t want to deal with India. I didn’t want her around reminding me of Didge, every single day. I was being a coward.”

“Why are you telling me this?” says Andrew, turning back to his bag. “I don’t care.”

“Obviously I didn’t give India up,” says Declan, “And now.” He pauses and shrugs, it sounds like. “I’m happy. If you’d just stop pushing people away-- ”

“There’s no one to push away,” says Andrew. He crumples one of his t-shirts into a ball and throws it onto the bed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly popular around here.”

“Because you keep pushing people away.”

“Because I’m me.”

Declan steps forward, right up to the bed, and says, “Harry and Summer care. Rebecca cares.”

“Harry and Summer care about each other,” says Andrew, shaking his head. “Rebecca cares about the idea of me, the poor misunderstood kid that nobody wants.”

Declan hitches a half-smile. “You can’t win this argument,” he says. “You say we don’t know you, but it’s your fault for pushing us away all the time. It's not actually that no one cares. You’re not a bad guy, Andrew, no matter what you want everyone to think. Just.” He shifts India in his arms. “Stop treating my mum so badly, and maybe even I’ll start caring a little bit.”

Andrew watches him leave and thinks that really, weirdly, Declan’s almost acting like he cares the most.

 

It’s dark when he heads outside, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He thinks about waiting til morning, but there’s no one in the living room or the kitchen and he’d rather not deal with anymore of anything today. He’s almost at the end of the driveway when Declan catches him, a hand around his elbow. 

“Jesus,” he says, shaking free and stepping out onto the footpath. 

“You’re being a coward,” says Declan, falling into step beside him. 

“Why do you even care?” says Andrew. “You hate me. I’m leaving. You’ll never have to see me again.”

Declan shrugs. “I’m not doing this for me,” he says. “Not even for my mum, although she wants you to stay, no matter what you think.”

“Who’re you doing it for, then?” Andrew shakes his head. “Me?”

“Yeah, actually,” says Declan. “You could stay here. With people who care about you. It could be _good_. Why would you turn that down?”

Andrew shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says. 

Declan arches an eyebrow. “Make me.”

Andrew stops, hauling the bag higher onto his shoulder, and turns to face Declan. “I can’t,” he says. “I can’t, okay? I’m always going to be like this. I’m always going to screw things up, and say the wrong things, and push people away. You people keep expecting me to, to change, just suddenly turn into one of you, and it’s not going to happen. It’s too late. So I’m going back to Sydney, because at least there everyone knows who I am. They won’t try to change me.”

Declan holds his gaze, long and silent. “Coward,” he says at last, softly. 

Andrew blinks, then pulls his arm back, almost without realising, and hits Declan hard in the mouth.

Declan stumbles but doesn’t hit back. He straightens, a hand over his mouth, and says again, “Coward.” There’s blood smeared over his bottom lip, dark and wet, when he pulls his hand away.

“Fuck you,” says Andrew, voice trembling, and starts walking again, quick and tight.

Declan catches him, bunching a hand in the back of his shirt. “You can change,” he says. “It’s not actually that hard. You could be _happy_. And you won’t even try.”

“Fuck. You!” Andrew shouts, tugging out of Declan’s grasp. 

“Just try,” says Declan. He’s still walking beside Andrew. “Prove me wrong.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” hisses Andrew. 

“Maybe not me,” agrees Declan, “But Paul, Rebecca, Harry, Summer. They all gave you so many chances. Give them at least one. You never did, you know. You never gave anyone a chance.”

“I.” Andrew stops. 

“I know it’s hard,” says Declan. “I know. But hey.” He curls his mouth, half-smiling. “You can even hit me again, if you like. Although I will hit you back this time, fair warning. But just. Come back.”

Andrew stares at him, the trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth down his chin. “Sorry,” he says finally. 

Declan shakes his head and wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. “I’ve had worse,” he says. He reaches out, tugging the bag from Andrew’s shoulder before he can react, and doesn’t say anything more, disappearing down the footpath. Andrew hears the screen door open, then close.

He stands for a long time, hands in his pockets and head tipped back, staring up past the streetlights at the faint, washed-out dusting of stars across the sky. 

His hand aches. 

 

Rebecca beams at him when he stumbles into the kitchen for breakfast, and says, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re still here! I was so worried you’d try and leave during the night.” She pushes a glass of orange juice across the counter and busies herself at the toaster.

Declan coughs into his coffee. 

Andrew shoots him a glare but says nothing.

“You’re not off the hook though,” says Rebecca, her smile fading. “What you did yesterday was inexcusable. You will apologise, this time. To everyone.”

Andrew doesn’t trust himself not to refuse with some rude remark, so he nods, silent. 

Rebecca looks taken aback. “Alright,” she says, cautiously. “You can do that this morning. After that, we’ll discuss what to tell Paul.”

Andrew nods again. It helps, when he heads out and makes the rounds, apologising in a low, rehearsed monotone, thinking about Paul and how he’ll probably not be here much longer, no matter what he said to Declan. 

 

Harry comes by, later that afternoon, soccer ball tucked under his arm and Summer in tow. “Did you want to come play?” he asks magnanimously, if not entirely happy. 

Andrew says, “I don’t think so.” Harry purses his lips, nodding, and Andrew adds, “Thank you though,” feeling supremely awkward, before they make it out the door. 

Harry looks surprised. 

“Maybe next time,” says Summer.

Andrew nods. 

“You’re doing it again,” says Declan from the stairs once the door closes. 

“Doing what?” says Andrew to the TV. 

“Pushing people away.” Declan moves into the living room, depositing himself on the couch. 

“I just don’t feel like playing.” Andrew shrugs. 

“How ‘bout footy?” says Declan.

“What?” Andrew glances at him. 

“Footy,” says Declan. “You know, Aussie Rules.”

“I don’t know how to play,” says Andrew, turning back to the TV.

“I’ll teach you,” says Declan. “Come on.”

“I don’t --”

“Come on,” says Declan, eyeing him sternly.

They stare off for a moment, then, “Fine,” says Andrew, rolling his eyes.

 

“You have to hold it like.” Declan shakes his head, jogging over to where Andrew’s standing. “In a ‘W’ shape, like this.” He holds up his hands, thumbs almost touching. “Near the laces, and then spread your fingers over the sides, and kick through it.”

Andrew stares down at the ball, then back up at Declan. “Your national sport is stupid,” he says.

Declan grins. “More complicated than you thought, isn’t it?”

“Unnecessarily complicated,” mutters Andrew, lining up his fingers. He frowns, glancing up along the field, then kicks the ball in a relatively straight line. 

“Not bad,” says Declan. “It’ll go further if you run into it.”

Andrew sighs, long and loud, and furrows his brows, half-curious and half-bewildered, at Declan’s back as he runs to pick up the ball. 

 

He stands at the top of the stairs the day Paul returns, palms flat against the wall, listening. Rebecca had decided it’d be better if she explained things alone first. 

Paul’s fucking angry. Andrew’s kind of glad he can’t see his face. “We can’t keep him here, Rebecca,” he says. It sounds like he’s pacing. “Every chance we’ve given him, he’s thrown back with a vengeance. God knows what he’ll do next.”

“Paul,” says Rebecca. “He’s your son. I called Christina while you were gone, and Paul.” She pauses. “She doesn’t want him. Those were her exact words. She doesn't want him. We can’t send him back to that.”

“He caused a hell of a lot less trouble while he was with her,” says Paul.

Andrew’s fists clench against the wall. 

He hears footsteps behind him and glances over his shoulder at Declan. Andrew holds his gaze for a moment, challenging, daring. 

Then Paul says, “I don’t know if I want him here either, to be honest,” and Andrew turns away, biting down on his lip. Next time he looks, Declan’s gone. 

 

They talk to him over breakfast. “You can stay.” Rebecca smiles at him. “I told you. We want you to be part of the family.”

Paul doesn’t look too happy. “You’ll be under serious restrictions,” he says. “No parties. No going out. Nothing, until you can prove you’re trustworthy. And if you slip up, at all, never mind the way you did while I was gone.” He points with his coffee. “You’re gone. Understood?”

“You make it sound like I actually want to stay,” says Andrew, and ignores the way Rebecca’s face falls.

“You’re welcome to leave,” says Paul. “Anytime you like. Those are the conditions, if you stay.”

Andrew opens his mouth. Declan elbows him hard in the side. He swallows what he was going to say, something about how he wouldn’t have to deal with this rubbish in Sydney, and says instead, “What about my job?”

“You don’t have a job,” says Paul, not even looking at him, “Until you can prove you deserve one.”

Andrew stares at him, frowning, and shoves back hard from the table. 

 

“Hey, come on,” says Declan, following him into his room. “That went way better than you thought it would. You thought Paul was going to send you straight back.”

“He might as well have,” says Andrew, sitting down hard on his bed and kicking at the covers. “I can’t do anything. It’s going to be just as bad here as anywhere else.”

“You’re living in a house with me,” says Declan, grinning. “How bad can it be?”

Andrew glances up at him, eyes narrowed. “Why are you so cheerful?” he says. “Seriously, two days ago you hated my guts. I don’t need you feeling sorry for me, or-- ”

“It’s not pity,” Declan cuts across. “I’m trying not to be selfish.”

“So what, you’re just setting an example, or else you’d go back to hating me.”

“No,” says Declan simply. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. 

“Look,” says Declan, “Honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t think you're a bad guy, but I’m waiting for you to show me you’re not an asshole.”

“I’m not showing anyone anything,” says Andrew furiously. “Stop fucking expecting me to drop everything trying to impress you, I’m not-- ”

“Oh, shut up,” says Declan, and leaves. 

 

So there’s a party. Someone mentions it to him at school, asks if he’s coming, and he says, “Yeah, ‘course,” without even thinking, and it’s not til he gets home Friday night, shucks off his uniform and pulls on his good jeans and a t-shirt that he realises it might be a bit of a problem. 

Paul stops in his open doorway, raises an eyebrow, and says, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Andrew grits his teeth; considers, for about half a second, saying _nowhere_ , but says instead, “Out.”

Paul nods; mild, dangerous. “Okay,” he says. “Make sure you pack everything, and say hi to Christina for me.” He smiles a hard, mirthless smile. 

Andrew feels his hands ball into fists. “I’m too old for this,” he says, furiously. 

“You’re under eighteen,” says Paul, “And I’m your father, which means that if you disobey me, I can ship you back to Sydney whenever I please. You’re free to go though, of course, any time you like.”

It’s just a party, thinks Andrew. Just a stupid party. “Maybe I will,” he mutters, turning away. 

Paul snorts softly and moves off down the corridor. 

Andrew looks at himself in the mirror, frowning, and hates how stupidly off-balance he feels. He doesn’t want to go back to Sydney, but he doesn’t want this either, Paul lording over him, treating him like such a fucking kid. In the end he rips his t-shirt in half and half again, because hitting anything else would have him back in Sydney before he could blink, and throws himself onto his bed, falling asleep mostly without meaning to, restless and unsettled. 

 

Saturday he watches mutinously from the couch as Rebecca and Paul head out, dressed-up and laughing, ignoring him, Rebecca in her dress and painted lips, Paul in his impeccable suit. 

“Have a nice night, boys,” Rebecca calls before the door slams in a flurry of perfume and fluttering sleeves. 

Andrew throws a cushion onto the floor, because he can, and changes the channel. 

“India’s asleep,” says Declan, coming into the room, “Could you turn it down a bit?” And then, “Oh hey, football, awesome.”

Andrew stabs at the control, lowering the volume a couple of bars, and changes the channel again for good measure. 

“Hey!” says Declan. 

“I was here first,” says Andrew, eyes on the screen. 

“Yeah, I think technically I win that one.” Declan snorts. “So, what, we’re watching.” He squints at the screen. “Mean Girls?”

Andrew slants him a glance. 

“Donna made us all watch it, once.” Declan’s mouth twitches. 

“Sure,” says Andrew. “Anyway, no, I’m just making a point.”

“A pointless point,” says Declan. “There’s nothing on.”

“Then maybe I should just turn it off.” Andrew flips the control in his hand. 

Declan rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says. “Stop being a dick.”

“No, seriously.” Andrew flicks the channel over again. “Your football is rubbish.”

“Rubbish,” says Declan, settling back into the couch and hugging a pillow to his chest. “Look, it’s nearly half-time anyway. You’ll have twenty whole minutes to watch Mean Girls.”

“I can’t wait,” says Andrew. 

Declan’s mouth twitches again, a little wider. 

Andrew sits silently until the half-time siren, watching and lamenting, shaking his head. It’s actually not all that unenjoyable, for such a terrible sport. Declan’s eyes are bright and focused, whenever Andrew looks over, following the ball up and down the field, reflecting the movement in the shadowed room. 

“You can put in a DVD, if you like,” he says magnanimously as the broadcast cuts to an ad. 

“You’re too kind,” says Andrew. “No, really.” He doesn’t move. He feels weird all of a sudden, kind of restless, reckless. “Why are you here anyway? You’re not grounded. It’s Saturday.”

“I have a daughter,” says Declan, something in his voice hardening. “I can’t ask my mum to babysit all the time. She deserves some fun too. Especially-- ” He stops.

“Especially now that I’m here ruining things,” Andrew finishes.

“I didn’t say that,” says Declan quietly.

Andrew rolls his eyes. “You were thinking it,” he says. “Just like everyone else. I don’t know why-- ”

“Don’t,” says Declan. “Just shut up. You want to be here, and you know it. You haven’t gone back, no matter how many times you threaten it. No matter how much you say it’s easier there. So just stop being such a jerk about everything. Stop trying to push us away. Stop trying to ruin things as soon as they start getting good. Seriously, I’m not going to say it again.”

Andrew says, “You don’t,” but doesn’t get any further, because Declan surges forward and cuts him off. With his mouth. 

There’s this strange suspended moment where it’s just Declan, balanced awkwardly on his knees, his mouth a soft pressure against Andrew’s, unmoving and quiet. Then Andrew opens his mouth to say _what_ , except his hand ends up bunched in Declan’s t-shirt, tugging him closer, and then there’s Declan’s tongue, and his weight, warm and solid, and long, wet kisses that feel anything but suspended, that feel like falling, fast and dizzying and a little terrifying. 

“What about Kate?” Andrew gasps. It’s ridiculously hard to think. Declan _bites_ , oh God.

“What about Summer?” counters Declan. 

“I never wanted Summer,” says Andrew, shoving a hand under Declan’s t-shirt. It makes him bite again, hard, at the soft skin beneath Andrew’s jaw. When he can breathe he adds, “I was just jealous of her.”

Declan pulls back to stare at him. Andrew stares back and brushes a hand very deliberately over the skin just above the waistband of Declan’s jeans. He twitches and pulls his lip between his teeth. “You’re going to have to elaborate,” he says, leaning down for another kiss, just as hard, and bruising. “Later.”

Andrew’s fine with later. He arches up, every inch of him pressed flush against Declan-- all long hard lines and angles, narrow hips-- and tightens his hands where they’re curled around the back of Declan's neck and his waist. Declan hisses, stubble rasping against Andrew’s, teeth sharp against his lips, wet and hot and unrelenting. 

Andrew grinds up, and up, and cannot get over how _good_ it feels. 

Declan sits back suddenly. Andrew blinks and says, “What?” kind of vaguely, focused as he is on Declan’s fucking mouth, how thoroughly kissed it looks, red and puffy. 

Declan says, “Pants,” and reaches down to tug at the button on Andrew’s jeans. 

“Oh,” says Andrew. 

Declan pauses. He’s breathing hard but he says, “Is that okay?” quietly, careful. 

“Of course it’s okay,” says Andrew impatiently, shoving Declan’s hands away and undoing the jeans himself. “I’m not a virgin, Christ.”

Declan’s mouth twitches. He says, “Okay,” and ducks his head, tugging his own jeans open. 

He doesn’t waste any more time. He leans back down to tug Andrew out of his briefs and then wraps his hand around both of them. Andrew has this moment where he literally cannot think anything other than _holy shit, holy_ shit _, so fucking good_. Declan’s cock is hot and hard and silky smooth against his, and his mouth is wet and plush. Andrew tugs him down, desperate, and kisses him without any finesse whatsoever, gasping into his mouth. He isn’t going to last long. Declan’s hand is fast and unhesitant, just a little too rough; perfect. When the tip of Andrew’s cock drags, slick with precome, along the underside of Declan’s he feels his breath stutter, sharp and sudden, and his neck arches back the way it always does when he comes, only harder, and Declan sinks his teeth into it, tongue flickering out to sooth the sting, tracing over his Adam’s apple and up to his mouth. 

“Here,” says Andrew, worming a hand between them, barely even coming down from the high of orgasm, “Let me,” and curls it around Declan’s cock, which is kind of weird, slick with Andrew’s own come and like, some other guy’s dick, but also hot, especially coupled with the way Declan shoves down into him, hips hard and bruising, and says, “Oh, oh,” against his cheek and comes pretty much straight away. 

It’s weirder afterwards. Andrew’s not sure, exactly, what to do. If it were a girl he’d maybe slip an arm beneath her neck, pull her against his side, but. It’s Declan lying beside him, breathing hard, hands resting loose on his chest. Their arms are brushing, only just, and Andrew can feel it, see it in the corner of his eye, when Declan turns his head to look at him even as he gazes determinedly at the ceiling. 

“You’re not going to get weird about this,” says Declan. It’s not a question. 

“Okay,” says Andrew. “Are you?”

“No,” says Declan. He pauses, then adds, “Only if we don’t do it again.”

“I.” Andrew does turn his head, this time. “What about Kate though, seriously? I’m not dealing with any crazy jealous girls, thanks very much.”

Declan shrugs. “We talked,” he says. “About a week ago. Decided it’s better if we’re just friends. Bridget, you know, I can't.” He stops.

“Oh,” says Andrew.

“Yeah,” says Declan. 

Andrew bites down on his lip for a moment, thinking, then says, “I’m not actually. You know. Gay.”

Declan gives him a look. “I was married. To a girl.”

“I know.” Andrew rolls his eyes. 

“Okay,” says Declan. “So.”

“So,” echoes Andrew, “We’re not, what. Not dating.”

“No,” says Declan.

“But we’re doing this again.” Andrew’s not sure about this whole thing, but he’s worryingly sure about that.

“Definitely,” says Declan. 

“Okay,” says Andrew. 

Declan laughs, suddenly, and leans over to kiss Andrew, sliding a hand into his hair. 

Andrew thinks that maybe feels a little too much like a dating thing, but he lets it go. 

 

Declan’s kind of insatiable, Andrew discovers pretty quickly. Not that Andrew is any less enthusiastic. Declan will drag him around corners and kiss him, fast and dirty, and rub against him, rough and almost awkward, until they’ve both come in their pants. Or he’ll sneak into Andrew’s room at night and push his shirt up under his arms, his pants down around his knees, and kiss him, and kiss him, filthy wet kisses until Andrew can’t keep quiet anymore, and then hold a hand over his mouth until he’s come. Andrew has bite marks all along his collarbones, the juncture of his neck and shoulders. Declan has bruises scattered over his hips, dark purplish imprints of fingers flowering across his skin. 

 

Andrew asks him, one time they’re out on the footy field, kissing unusually slow and easy beneath the almost-set sun, glowing dusty orange through the gum trees, “You’re not trying to fix me with sex, are you?”

“You can’t fix people with sex,” says Declan, like he’d know. And then, “Why, is it working?”

“Wait,” says Andrew. “What? Are you or aren’t you?”

“I’m not actually that presumptuous,” says Declan. He rolls onto the grass beside Andrew, looking up through the leaves. “It’s getting better though, right?” he asks after a silence. “I mean, generally.”

Andrew thinks about it. His mum hasn’t called to check up on him once. This morning when Rebecca smiled at him across the table, he smiled back. He hasn’t spoken back to Paul in three days. He gets to kiss Declan almost whenever he wants, bite cuts into his lips and dig bruises into his skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe a little.”

 

He thinks about the third time he ran away from home, lying on his bed later that night, listening to Rebecca in the kitchen holding up a one-sided conversation with Paul, who Andrew knows is peering intently at his laptop, nodding along to Rebecca’s chatter and occasionally throwing in the odd word or two. He can hear Declan too, his voice low and soft across the hall, putting India to sleep. 

Andrew was ten, and he hated his mum’s new boyfriend. Not for any particular reason; the guy was probably nicer to him than his mum ever was. Still, by that time he knew better than to hope, and he was old enough to realise that no matter how nice he pretended to be, when it came down to it he’d side with Christina on everything, every time. Ten year-old Andrew snuck out the front door while they were busy watching TV on the couch, no fighting this time, no shouting, nothing. He wandered for a while, hands in his pockets, aimless and a little lacklustre. He didn’t even pack anything. It wasn’t cold but eventually his eyes grew heavy, his limbs slow and weary, and he trudged his way back home, gathered the energy to scale the tree whose branches tapped against his window, and slipped into his bed. His mum never even noticed he was gone. 

He thinks about the vague sense of unease that drove him to it and how it’s conspicuously absent here, despite everything: despite Paul and his rules, his ruthlessness, Declan and their weird non-relationship. About Rebecca, and how she notices even when it’s just breakfast he misses. 

 

Declan stops in his doorway once India’s quiet, a hand on the frame, and says, “I’m really tired.”

“Okay,” says Andrew slowly.

“So,” says Declan, “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.” He doesn’t move. 

Andrew props himself up on his elbows. “Did you want something?”

Declan moves abruptly, two quick steps over to the bed and tugs Andrew into a kiss with a hand around the back of his neck. 

“I thought you were tired,” Andrew mutters into his mouth, craning upwards. 

“I am,” says Declan. He’s not sitting, bent uncomfortably low. 

“So go to bed,” says Andrew. He licks light, almost dry, at the corner of Declan’s mouth. 

“Yeah.” Declan pulls back, still bent towards Andrew, oddly hesitant. 

There’s a silence. “You can’t sleep here,” says Andrew eventually. “That’s not. You know. And Paul and Rebecca would notice, anyway.”

“Yeah,” says Declan again. He straightens and watches Andrew for a heartbeat, silent, then turns and leaves. Andrew listens to his soft shuffling movements down the hall, the click of his door; lies back on the bed and doesn’t know what to think. 

 

Friday Declan’s out somewhere with Harry and Summer and Donna and whoever else, and Andrew sits in his room, seething and restless and mad at everyone, it feels like. Declan for going out, for being allowed to go out; on principal, he tells himself, not because Declan has any sort of obligation-- he doesn’t, and anyway, even if he did it’s not like Andrew wants him to. 

Paul for being such a hardass. Rebecca for letting Paul have his way. Himself for continuing to put up with this bullshit. 

He falls asleep too early, too angry, his hand clenched too tight over the edge of the mattress. 

 

Saturday morning he stumbles into a kitchen devoid of everyone besides Declan; Rebecca’s absence, her almost too cheerful, bustling presence, is particularly loud. 

“Where is everyone?” he mumbles through a yawn, knuckling at his eyes. 

Declan raises an eyebrow from where he’s sipping coffee behind the counter. “It’s six in the morning,” he says. 

Andrew blinks. “Oh,” he says. He’s not sure he’s ever been up this early, even on a school day.

“It’s a whole new world when you’re grounded.” Declan smirks. 

Andrew says, “Shut up,” and yawns again, then adds a half-hearted, “I’m going back to bed.” He’s not actually tired anymore. 

Declan seems to realise this. “Just have some coffee,” he says, rolling his eyes and pushing the carafe and a mug across the counter. 

He watches Andrew pour himself a cup; Andrew can feel the gaze, see his eyes-- too focused, too awake-- in the corner of his own. “Why’re you up so early?” he asks, swallowing a mouthful.

“India,” says Declan simply. 

Of course. Andrew nods and hates how Declan makes him feel stupid like this sometimes. Not on purpose, he doesn’t think, just young and a bit dumb in comparison. When he looks up again, his coffee half-finished, Declan’s come around the counter, standing up close between his knees, mug still in hand. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Andrew looks at him. Declan leans in and kisses him. It’s like morning: his mouth, hot and coffee with sugar-sweet; the house, still quiet, still sleeping; the light, still pale through the windows. His hand is heavy against the back of Andrew’s neck, and when Andrew opens his eyes his skin looks very thin, creased with tired-looking lines beneath the scattered dusting of freckles, hinting at the faint blue tinge of veins. 

 

“I want to fuck you,” Andrew says. 

Declan’s eyebrows hit his hairline, but he doesn’t look away from the TV, not even when he says, finally, shrugging just a little, “Okay.”

Andrew nods, swallowing, and echoes, “Okay.”

 

He’s careful, so slow he’s almost shaking with it, because he knows Declan’s expecting him not to be. Declan looks...not scared, exactly, but kind of like he’s bracing himself. Andrew slicks up his fingers and pushes Declan’s thighs apart and just rubs over his hole, stroking light, easy. He keeps his head down, much as he wants to look up and see Declan’s face, because he can feel how hot his cheeks are. 

“Andrew,” says Declan. 

Andrew looks at him then. Declan’s mouth is open and wet, eyes dark, and as Andrew pushes a finger inside a little furrow appears between his brows, like he’s not sure how he feels about it. “It should,” says Andrew, twisting the finger, crooking it slightly. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about this, a lot, not like he hasn’t maybe even looked up how it’s supposed to work. 

“Oh,” says Declan suddenly. His mouth goes slack and he swallows, says, “Do that again.”

Andrew crooks his finger how he thinks he did it before. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Declan gasps. “That’s. Wow.”

Andrew bites back a smile and pushes another finger inside, twisting and scissoring. Declan’s hips twitch. 

By the third finger Declan’s breathing loud, heavy, and he’s moving, trying to push down on Andrew’s fingers. Andrew tries to focus on anything but the heat, the pressure, curving his free hand under Declan’s thigh and gripping hard, maybe a little too hard, but Declan doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice. “You can,” says Declan, squirming a little, “Do it, come on.”

“Yeah,” says Andrew. “Yeah.” He pulls his fingers out and fumbles about for a condom. It takes him a few tries to rip it open, and then he drops it and mutters, “Shit,” and finally rolls it on and slicks himself up some more, hand shaking. 

Declan sits up on his elbows and laughs, biting down on his lip. 

“Shut up,” says Andrew. 

Declan reaches out to push away the damp hair clinging to his forehead and says, “Hey. Come on.”

Andrew takes a moment to breathe, because everything’s kind of weird: the want pooling in his belly, the tightness in his chest, the adrenaline skittering beneath his skin. Declan’s hand hovers over his cheek, skating down to curl around the back of his skull and tug him forward. 

“Come on,” he says again and Andrew nods, says, “Yeah,” and pushes in slow, so slow, and he can’t help the noise he makes, some strangled surprised thing, because Declan’s so _tight_ , not anything near like what he was expecting. 

Declan says, “Oh God,” and lets his head fall back, mouth open, loose. 

“Okay?” Andrew remembers to ask, holding himself up over Declan. 

“Just,” says Declan, shifting his hips, “Just, yeah.”

Andrew pauses. The furrow’s back between Declan’s brows. He tries to change the angle, careful, pulling out a little and pushing back in. 

Declan’s eyes flutter closed. “ _Yeah_ ,” he breathes. 

“Good,” says Andrew. It’s strange, the relief, the almost accomplished feeling, never something he’s felt during sex before. “Good, okay.”

He does it again, pulling out and pushing in, pulling out and pushing in, still gripping Declan’s thick-muscled thighs, still holding himself back, gasping at the drag of it, the slow, sweet ache. Declan says, “More,” and Andrew says, “Oh, thank God,” and speeds up a little, unable to hold back anymore, jerking his hips harder, registering the soft slap of skin on skin. He hears Declan laugh, breathless, and leans down without thinking, kissing him sloppy and open-mouthed, more shared breath than anything else. 

Andrew can feel his arms starting to shake, holding his weight, and Declan’s nails are digging hard into his back, and he really, really needs to come, desperate now, hips moving hard, almost automatic. Declan’s rising to meet his thrusts too, arching his back and trying to rub off against Andrew’s stomach. Andrew shifts his weight carefully onto one arm and reaches down to jerk him off. Declan makes a choked-off, incoherent noise and bites down on Andrew’s lip. 

“Shit,” says Andrew, pushing in hard once, twice, three times, and then his hips stutter as he comes, his hand slowing on Declan’s cock. 

Declan lifts a hand from his back to grip his hair, and whispers, “Close, so close, come on,” and arches up into Andrew’s hand, pressing against his chest. Andrew hisses, because shit, he’s still so tight, but lets him, flexes his fingers and mumbles nonsense into Declan’s ear as he comes too, sticky and warm and wet between them.

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes it’s still mostly dark, only the first, barely-there slivers of dawn peeking around the edge of the blinds. Declan’s still there, not really touching him, curled up on his side with his back to Andrew, the tops of Andrew’s knees brushing light against the backs of his thighs. Andrew’s still for a moment, silent, then digs his knuckles into Declan’s back and says, “Hey. Hey, get up.”

Declan says, “Huh,” blearily and rolls over, rubbing at his eyes. 

“You need to go,” whispers Andrew. “It’s nearly morning.”

“Did I-- oh.” Declan blinks at him. “I fell asleep.”

“No shit.” Andrew rolls his eyes. “Go back to your room.”

“Mmm,” says Declan, sliding a hand into his hair and kissing him. 

“Christ,” mutters Andrew into his mouth, trying to shove him off. Only then Declan slings a leg over Andrew’s thigh and rolls against him, which is totally not playing fair, and also kind of-- well, really nice. It’s warm and slow and drowsy and _good_ , and Declan’s hand feels huge where it’s cupping the back of his skull. Andrew flattens his palms, fingers splayed against Declan’s back, and feels the sharp relief of his spine, traces the vertebrae as he closes his eyes and sighs, lets Declan rut against him until they both come. 

 

Then Ringo comes back, and Andrew can feel his mouth twist when he hears, ugly and angry. 

Declan doesn’t come home that first day, stays at Charlie’s til late, catching up with Ringo, and Andrew rolls over in bed, closes his eyes and thinks about how much he doesn’t care. 

 

He doesn’t see Ringo until he comes over, because of the whole being grounded thing. He’s halfway down the stairs when the door opens and Ringo stops short ahead of Declan, lip curled, eyes narrowed. “You,” he says menacingly, like he thinks that actually happens outside of movies.

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Get used to it,” he says, brushing past into the kitchen. 

He hears Ringo say to Declan, pointedly loud, “How do you put up with him?”

He’s not watching, just happens to catch Declan’s reaction in the corner of his eye. Declan shrugs.

When Ringo leaves Andrew’s sitting on the couch, half-watching TV, half listening to his conversation with Declan. “Come to Charlie’s tonight,” he’s saying. He pauses, and adds, “Don’t bring him.” Andrew can picture the look on his face. 

Declan says, “He’s grounded anyway.”

“Thank God,” says Ringo, heading towards the door.

Declan doesn’t answer. 

 

Andrew thinks about it, when Declan doesn’t stop by his room after another night at Charlie’s. It’s not like he cares if they are finished with this, whatever it is, but he doesn’t think he’d mind if they weren’t, either. It’s sex, after all. Sex is always good. 

He says to Declan in the morning, when Rebecca’s left the kitchen and Paul’s left the house, “Are we finished with this, then?”

“With what?” says Declan. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow. 

“I,” says Declan. “Do you want to be?”

“Don’t you?” says Andrew. “Now that Ringo’s back, you’ve realised the error of your ways. Or you don’t need the distraction anymore, whatever.”

Declan stares at him. “It’s not,” he says, and stops. 

“It is,” says Andrew. “You’re using me. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m using you, too.”

“I’m not using you,” says Declan immediately. 

Andrew rolls his eyes. “You are,” he says. “I don’t care. Just don’t pretend like it’s anything else. You don’t need to try and be my friend, or make me feel loved, or whatever the fuck else.”

Declan’s silent for a moment. “It was Bridget’s birthday, two days ago.”

“I,” says Andrew, blinking. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, shut up,” says Declan. He leans forward to bite at Andrew’s mouth and says, “It’s my turn.”

Andrew frowns as Declan moves to bite his jaw. “Your turn-- oh.”

Declan pulls back. “Yeah,” he says. His eyes are very dark.

“But,” says Andrew. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it, wondered just exactly _how_ it’s good, what Declan was feeling when his face went slack like that, but it’s. It’s a dick, in his ass, and it’s kind of really, really gay, and Andrew’s not, well. Although then, Declan’s not either, but--

“You’re not actually going to say no,” says Declan incredulously. And then, quieter, “I won’t hurt you.”

“It’s not that,” snaps Andrew. Jesus. He thinks about Declan’s stupid, soft voice at the end there, and adds, fisting his hand in Declan’s collar, “Fine.”

 

Declan’s not slow, which Andrew is surprised about and actually grateful for, but he’s methodical, and firm. 

One hand stays anchored, warm and solid, on Andrew’s hip, and the other opens him up, a careful, precise press of blunt fingers. The first isn’t so bad, burns a little, mostly just weird, but the second really, really hurts. He hisses, “Fuck,” and turns his cheek into the pillow, screwing his eyes shut.

“It gets good,” says Declan. “I promise.” 

Andrew feels him lean down and brush his lips over his cheek, and the strangest thing of all is that it does. 

 

He thinks about the fourth time he ran away from home, afterwards, closing his eyes and listening to Declan’s heavy breaths beside him. It was his twelfth birthday, and Christina wouldn’t let him have a party. “I don’t have time to clean up after you, let alone anyone else,” she said. 

Andrew stared at her and felt the tears stinging his eyes. She’d given him twenty pounds for his present. He curled his hand around it, crumpling it safe in his fist, and ran. He ran and ran, out the kitchen, through the front door and onto the footpath, not even looking up, just running until he couldn’t anymore. When he stopped and looked up he found himself somewhere he recognised, vaguely, as where his mum dragged him when she wanted to shop, full of lit-up stores and bustling crowds of people. They were loud, and he couldn’t breathe, and no one so much as glanced his way. 

Declan shifts beside him. Andrew opens his eyes abruptly, and there are no crowds; just Declan, and Andrew's breathing is slowing, somewhere deep in his chest. 

 

He feels like such a fucking kid, calling Rebecca to ask permission to stop by Harold’s after school. He wouldn’t bother if he didn’t know Paul’s been checking up on what time he arrives home every day, right down to the minute. She says, “Oh, of course, that’s fine. As long as you’re home by dinner.”

Andrew hangs up, jaw set, but he breathes, in and out, and sets his shoulders, shrugging it off. It’s still bullshit, yeah, and more than a little humiliating, but also starting to feel like maybe not such a terrible compromise, all in all. Christina still hasn’t called to check up on him, and Harry’s started coming over unannounced, asking Rebecca if he can drag Andrew out for some soccer. 

He grits his teeth though when Ringo joins them at their table and says with barely concealed venom, “What’s _he_ doing here? I thought he’s grounded.”

“ _He_ is right here,” says Andrew, folding his arms. 

“I know,” says Ringo. “Shouldn’t you be at home doing chores or something?”

Andrew half-starts out of his chair, not entirely sure what he’s going to do. Hitting Ringo sounds like a good idea, and he’s already starting to think _fuck it_ when Declan grabs a fistful of his shirt and hauls him back down. “You wanna go back to Sydney?” he mutters, and adds, “Drop it,” louder, to Ringo. 

Ringo’s lip curls, and he mumbles something about, “Best friends while I’m gone,” to himself, but sits back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

Donna’s eyes are flicking back and forth between them, pathetically hopeful, and Kate looks uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. Harry’s expression is mostly gratified, almost pleased, and Summer’s is a lot of relief, too. Andrew sighs and hunches forward, swirling his straw around his glass. He doesn’t talk. It’s not quite comfortable yet, and certainly not with Ringo here. He’s sure to get snapped at no matter what he says, and he’s tired, honestly, sick of defending all the time, pretending like it’s so easy. People haven’t stopped staring at him, either, the trashing a still too-recent memory, whispering behind their hands.

He catches Declan glancing at him and raises an eyebrow, a little questioning but mostly a challenge. Declan’s lips twitch and he looks away. 

“So I was thinking we could head out this weekend, have some fun,” Ringo’s saying. “Dec, guys, what do you think?” He glances at Andrew with a smirk. Andrew’s hands ball into fists. 

“Sure.” Declan shrugs. “Andrew, you should ask Paul. It’s been a while, he might let you go.”

Andrew snorts. 

Ringo says, “Uh, I didn’t ask him.”

“Ringo, come on,” says Donna quietly. 

“No,” says Ringo loudly, “No, seriously, why are we even hanging out with him? He screwed all of you guys over, too. This is so stupid.”

Andrew starts out of his chair again and Declan’s hand is back almost immediately, trying to tug him down. “Let go,” grits Andrew, slinging his bag onto one shoulder. “I’m not going to hit him. I don’t think he could handle it.” He throws Ringo a scathing look, half-hoping he’ll start something. With all these witnesses, he’s sure he could escape the blame. “I’m leaving.”

He doesn’t look at Declan, and the last thing he sees before he makes it out the door is Summer. She looks almost impressed. 

Someone follows him, of course, because it’s Erinsborough and they don’t know how to leave well enough alone. He hears the thudding footsteps approaching and tenses his shoulders, hikes his bag higher, just in case. 

It’s Declan though, and he says, “Hey, you don’t. You don’t have to leave, you know. Everyone else got over it eventually. He will, too.”

Andrew shrugs. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll just lay low til then.”

“You don’t have to,” says Declan again. 

“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me, either,” says Andrew. “I have my own friends. Go hang out with yours.”

“Stop it,” says Declan quietly. 

“No,” says Andrew. “And this, too.” He waves his hand between them. “I’ve had enough.” He’s not actually sure where that comes from. He always thought Declan would be the one to put a stop to this, in the end. It's just sex, sure, but Declan's got a lot more to lose. But suddenly Andrew’s just. Had enough. Maybe he’s just tired, but it’s a very all-encompassing kind of tiredness. 

Declan blinks. “You’re. Breaking up with me?”

“We’re not dating,” says Andrew, “So no. It’s just sex. I can get it somewhere else. I’m sure you can, too.” 

Declan says, “It’s not,” and stops, abrupt. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow and determinedly ignores the way his palms get sweaty, the way his heart skips into some more up-tempo rhythm. He shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to leave.

Declan catches him around the elbow and Andrew thinks stupidly about the night he nearly left Erinsborough. “What,” he says, and then Declan steps up close and shoves their mouths together.

“You can hit me if you like,” he murmurs against Andrew’s lips, still pressed stubbornly shut. Andrew can feel his shoulders rising up about his ears, tight and defensive. “Or you could open up.”

He actually hesitates for a second. Declan’s lips are really warm, and wet. In the end though he flattens his palms against Declan’s chest and pushes him off. “What the fuck,” he hisses. 

Declan wipes at his mouth. Andrew hates the way his eyes snap automatically to follow the movement. “Look,” he says. “I don’t know if.” He shrugs, and ‘Bridget’ is as clear in his voice as if he’d said it. “But,” he continues, “It’s not just sex. You’re a pain in the ass, but. You’re not an asshole. Which I’m seriously shocked about, trust me. But. It’s not just sex. I figured that out too.”

Andrew stares. “You’re pathetically incapable of doing anything without strings attached,” he says finally. Declan just looks at him, and he adds, quieter, sighing like it's a confession, “I don’t know what you want.”

“I,” says Declan. “I don’t either, actually. Just. I kind of don’t want to. Stop.”

“So you want to keep having just sex.” Andrew runs a hand through his hair. 

“You really have no strings?” Declan tilts his head. “At all?”

“Are you asking me if I _like you?_ ” Andrew feels a disbelieving, almost hysterical burst of laughter fighting upwards along his throat. 

Declan does that annoying, appraising silence thing again. 

“I don’t hate you, I guess,” says Andrew at last, grudgingly. 

“Ha,” crows Declan, surging forward and curling a hand around the back of Andrew’s neck. “I knew it.” His grin is stupid, over-bright, and he’s actually trying to pull Andrew closer, his other hand folding over his hip, holding him in place.

“That does not mean I’m up for making out in public, oh my God,” says Andrew frantically, struggling to get away. Declan’s fucking strong. “I told you, I’m not-- ”

“Dude,” says Declan, tightening his grip and bringing their foreheads together. “You’ve spent the last month and a half getting pretty well acquainted with my penis. I’m pretty sure that makes you at least a little gay. I mean, the other night you let me-- ”

“Oh my God,” says Andrew again, and does the first thing he can think of to shut Declan up, since they’re in _public,_ for fuck’s sake, almost right outside Harold’s, and kisses him. Which is, he realises belatedly, perhaps not the most effective method of fending off any burgeoning challenges to his heterosexuality.

Declan’s laughing almost too much for it to work, but he tilts his head and angles Andrew’s with his hand, and their lips slot together warm and easy even as he chuckles into Andrew’s mouth. 

“Yeah, well,” Andrew mutters, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder and sliding his fingers into Declan’s beltloops, “This makes you just as gay, too.”

“I’m dealing with it,” says Declan.


End file.
